Heartlines
by Anti-canon
Summary: A large part of his reputation surrounds his unorthodox methods, the disturbingly twisted nature of this whole organization, his relationship with his followers; all of them runaways and outcasts, lost boys he can take under his wing and mold to his vision. The alphas- they don't like it to say the least. One of his kind, recruiting young Were, turning them from their breed.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, this was actually prompted by one of my followers on tumblr and it took me a while to get to it, but once I did, it caught like wildfire in my brain. :P Anyways, Stiles is a demon, head of a gang of Supernaturals and nobody quite knows his methods yet. Derek, having just lost his family, decides to join up.**

**I have ideas as to where this might go, am definitely willing to take suggestions. :P So, tell me what you think! Inspired in part by Florence and the Machine's Heartlines. **

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You know exactly what he is, and you don't care.

His organization- it's for the desperate man, the one who has nothing left to care for, who can give it- give him their entire being. You wouldn't call yourself desperate, but you're without a cause, and if you can ever hope to be whole again, that's something you need. The life of an Omega isn't one you'd ever choose, and you're certain that it's not one you would survive. Joining Peter's pack was never an option, most others saw you as cursed after the decimation of your family- wouldn't take you for all the power in the world, and so you're here, waiting for either the death that comes with rejection, or acceptance and a new purpose.

It had been easier than you thought, getting in touch with the right people, making your intentions known. Now you're standing in a dingy bar after closing, all manner of boys sitting on stools and in booths around you, waiting for The Apostate to come. If you were more reckless, you might laugh at the setup- so cliché as it is, but you know better, have heard of his calculating ruthlessness. Your gaze sweeps across the room, feeling like a caged animal as you look at them, wondering if you might not make the cut.

A large part of his reputation surrounds his unorthodox methods, the disturbingly twisted nature of this whole organization, his relationship with his followers; all of them runaways and outcasts, lost boys he can take under his wing and mold to his vision. The alphas- they don't like it to say the least. One of his kind, recruiting young Were, turning them from their breed, making them instruments of his will. Rumor has it, he lays with them all, intoxicates them so thoroughly they never want to leave. You had scoffed at it in the beginning, thinking it was hardly a way to run his outfit, but looking at them all now, it doesn't seem so farfetched. You can feel the reverence they each hold for him, can smell the loyalty, the need to protect.

He really is as smart as they say, and when the room quiets, a dense silence falling over the bar, he enters, and is so much more. The second you hear his footfalls on the hardwood, you snap to attention, pulse suddenly thundering in your ears and bulging out your neck. You catch sight of him—and it's like the world tilts on its axis. Your legs tremble, your lungs collapse, your eyes strain to stay open though they feel as though they're going to burst from their sockets. He is… overwhelming. There is something distinctly _other _that reaches outside his vessel, that makes the air waver and the silence thin. The world feels like it might just snap if he so wished, and when his eyes turn to you, amber glowing inhuman, you fall to your knees.

A small, seductive, caustic smile spreads across his lips and he slowly starts to make his way towards you, harem parting as he passes though they lean into his presence, caught up in his gravity. His shoes clack coldly with each step, an emaciated elegy. You shiver, bare your throat, feel adrenaline course through your system… and you like it. You nearly whimper with the need for him to finally arrive, to take you in and determine you worthwhile. In this moment, you think you've never wanted anything so badly in your whole life, eyes raking over the trim outline of his body, the boyish features clashing so harshly with the eerie expression on his face.

He's wearing plain black slacks and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but somehow he makes it look so sinful. Ink, blacker than anything you've seen, cuts across the pale skin of his right forearm, the wicked branches of a dying tree spread across his palm, racing down to follow his veins and disappear up into the stark fabric. It seems to shift, pulse, breathe in the corner of your eye, stilling instantly when you gaze directly at the image. It holds your attention for the duration of his walk, keeping you unaware until fingers scrape at the underside of your jaw and force your eyes away.

"So, this is the infamous Derek Hale…" He tilts your head this way and that, pushes your lips away with his thumb to feel along your teeth and gums, massaging the canines and making inscrutable sounds. "The stories don't do you justice. When you hear cursed, you can't help but call to mind images of haggard, haunted wisps of a man. But you—" He trails off, clucking his tongue and letting go of your jaw to pace a circle around you, occasionally stopping to poke and prod. "Never was much of one for doing what I was told…" He pulls to a stop in front of you and crouches down, running a hand through your hair. "You _are _a curious thing. What were you wanting from the likes of me?"

It takes a while for you to comprehend the question, to recognize that he was waiting for an answer. He doesn't appear to be put off by it, maybe even accustomed to it, patiently resting on his haunches, attention solely on you. You have to breathe deeply, pull an answer from inside you up to your tongue. "I want to serve you, be your right hand."

His eyebrows arch in surprise and he pauses for a second before barking a laugh, swooping into your space, lips twisted wryly, eyes half-lidded. "That's very forward of you Hale. Don't you know what I use my right hand for?" He practically purrs as his hand trails down from your hair, over your jaw, across your throat, down, down, down, until he cups between your legs. "That's a dirty job- and not one I take lightly." He presses his forehead to your temple and blatantly starts to grope, rocking into you, breath quickening. "What makes you think you're- heh- _equipped." _

"Let me prove myself—let me show you." You're desperate that he hears you out, heart clenching with the thought of not being enough. You can't live the way you were before, can't possibly try and pretend things are okay. You need this- need him.

He pulls back, licking your lips on his way, and hums satisfactorily. "I like the sound of that…" You can see a thousand and one ideas flitting through his mind, conceived trials and tortures evaluated at the speed of thought. "So much to do, so little time…" You can see the second his mind is made up, see the revelation bloom across his face as he grins, pupils thrumming, quaking before the black bursts out, swallowing up the rest of the eye. "There's a little lizard who's been quite resistant to my thralls up to now, something about already having a master to serve. You're gonna help me fix that."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Herps, sorry this took forever to update. I have so many other fics going on right now, somehow this one got designated to the sidelines. :P I would promise that I'd update more regularly, but I'd be lying. D: Sorry!**

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The need to please your alpha- it's there in all of you.

It manifests itself in many different ways, but from the day each wolf's maturation comes, it's instilled in each and every one of them. When you're small, it just means following orders better, thinking of Pack before the individual, giving small thanks for the simplest of things. It's different with each individual Were and with each individual alpha. With _him_, the second you accept his authority, your body quakes with the need to please, to make him happy. Ingrained, deep, deep is the physicality of it, to rouse, swell, and sate him. It's heady and thick and so, so good.

He seems to have anticipated it, snaps his fingers and every boy in the room is set to motion, most disappearing out back entrances and down into the basement, leaving only four. The Apostate is given a burlap sack, by one with blonde curls and a fidgety nature, handled gingerly and with obvious fear in his eyes, only calmed by a possessive hand curling around his jaw before coming to rest on his chest for a few short seconds. A sharp, sickly scent cuts through the haze of your lust as The Apostate pulls a damp rope from the depths of the bags, and you instantly understand.

Wolfsbane.

The boys give him a wide berth as he circles behind you- tutting when low growls roll through the room and a vicious snarl rips from your lips. He crouches down and grabs for your wrists, easily fighting your resistance as he binds them. "Hush, hush." The poison burns through your first layer of skin quickly, the friction of the rope grinding it into the delicate flesh beneath and releasing thin tendrils of smoke that smell of rotting flesh. "Now stop squirming- you'll just make it worse." He rubs down your flanks, fingers molding along each bump and groove, firm, but placating. It draws your attention, makes the pain and the fear secondary emotions and though you don't quit growling, you lean into his touch, whining when he pulls away.

"This is all just a part of the initiation, nothing to get worked up about, right boys?" He sweeps his gaze around the room, smiling when their gazes drop. "You're smart Hale- you'll figure it out soon enough." And with one last wicked smile, he throws the bag over your head, not bothering to secure it as the Wolfsbane dripped off the rope and into the burlap begins to invade your senses, knocking you out in a matter of moments.

~~~  
You're not sure how long it is before you wake, but when you do, it's alone and in the darkness.

You go to stand, but are pulled immediately back, heavy chains around your wrists and ankles, keeping you shackled to the cold cement floor. The monkshood is starting to clear from your system, sweating out your pores with a sickly sheen and an even worse smell. Once you're more well than sick, once enough has seeped out so you can study your surroundings and question what possible motivation could be behind it all, that's right when he shows up again.

At first it just starts as an itch between your shoulders, something easy to mistake for tension and fear. Unconsciously you sway towards it, angling your body to follow his movements, but when he's close enough, then you can smell, then you know. A low, friction burn sets in, deep in your flesh, and resonates hotter and hotter as it burns through the remaining poison. You _want _him, _need _him. Tracking his movements on the upper floor, a low rumble builds up in your chest and reverberates around the room, low and hesitant.

He takes his time crossing to the stairs, and slows even more when he hits the stairs, steps impossibly loud as they travel down into the empty room. You're so focused, so intent, so ready to solidify his claim, you don't even realize that there are others until a lone lightbulb flicks on at the landing, illuminating The Apostate, the blonde boy from before, and another beta around his age with darker hair, darker skin, and a crooked jaw. The stay hot on his heels, hanging just a half-step behind, watching his each and every moment just as carefully as you. He barely even acknowledges their presence, or yours, as he taps away on the small phone in his hands, impeccably dressed as the last time, no sign of weapons or tricks up his sleeve—from here.

When he draws near, you butt your head against his knee and slouch into his touch when an absentminded hand comes to run through your hair. He continues on his phone for several minutes, not minding the way you rub against him, or how the strength of your arousal permeates through the sickness, making the other two Were sway restlessly and curl their lips around a silent snarl. Pocketing the device makes them both snap into attention, back on their best behavior, and he grins wickedly, not having missed it.

It's a particular kind of torture you never could have imagined when he cradles the blonde boy's jaw and kisses him slow and possessive before turning to do the same with the darker boy. They both hum, pleased, letting their own arousal be known, but don't push for more, not in the slightest. You growl as best you can, snapping at your chains, finally drawing his damn attention, and all he does is bark a laugh.

"Best learn how to play well with others Hale—we've got no room for selfishness or petty disputes here." As if to illustrate his point, he reaches behind him and pulls the blonde flush against his back as he reaches for the darker boy with his other arm, trailing it down his flank in what could only be called petting. They rub up against him in tandem, eyes glowing a bright gold, reflected in the pitch depths of his own. You snap and writhe which only makes him grind harder and you can smell the exact moment when the first dewy drop of pre wets his shorts.

The scent is heady, intoxicating, making your eyes shutter and your muscles loosen, ready to be his vessel in every way possible. When he notices the onset of your lucidity, he disentangles himself from the other two, not minding when their grasping lingers, and crouches in front of you, tugging at your chin. He leans into your space, ink roiling along his skin, eyes swimming, but he pulls up short, tips of your noses just brushing. "What do you say?" His breath ghosts across your skin, the phantom touch of his lips, its own siren song. "Gonna be my good little boy?"

It should feel like a trap—you know that, objectively, down deep in the rational parts of your mind that have been pushed away—but though you can identify the threat, none of the bells and whistles go off, and all you can manage is the lethargic nod of your head. You're swimming through a haze of pheromones and other darker, richer, older things. It thrums through your blood and whispers in your head, constant, crushing, rising to a cacophony when he surges forward to claim your lips. He bites harshly at your lips, attacking with his tongue when you open your mouth to cry out. Your blood pulses beneath his palms when he places them against your throat and you arch into the touch, needing so much more.

You hardly take notice of the other betas circling behind you, working quickly to undo the binds, save for the fact that you can finally lunge at The Apostate, roaring rapturous, victorious, when he allows you to tackle him to the ground. You grind down into him, going easily when the other boys strip you down, but lashing at them the second they try to touch him. He merely seems amused that you're refusing full acceptance of your lesson, not caring a mite when their hands and mouths and skin press against your own, but making it clear that this claiming is yours and yours alone.

By the end of the night, you will belong to another—your soul will be, blessedly, sold.


End file.
